Embers of Sparta
by Winged Knight
Summary: Kratos, the Ghost of Sparta. He is a murderer, god slayer... and a father. A short snippet inspired by the recent E3 announcement.


The first thing Kratos did when he awoke was to breathe deep of the crisp, chill air not yet warmed by the rising sun. That painful sweetness filled his lungs almost to bursting, telling him that he had lived through another night. That brought… conflicting feelings, just as it always did. Even after so many years he was still a little amazed to be reminded he walked among the living.

The second thing he did was check on his son.

Swaddled tightly in his furs, the boy resembled an insect locked in a cocoon. The expansive covers made him look small, smaller than he usually did. It was all to strive off the bitter cold that came when the sun fell, but the boy slept peacefully and warm. His features, so soft and gentle in repose, were untouched by the frigid air.

Every morning Kratos looked upon his son as he slept, and every morning he could not keep the smile from his lips. It was one of the most amazing things he had ever seen in his life, something to be treasured more than all the riches in the world. Kratos reached out a hand to his child's sleeping face, to prove to himself that something so soft and wondrous could be real.

But then he saw his hand, ashen white, and froze.

Scarred and callused, it was not a gentle hand. This hand had wielded weapons as easily as people took breath, had bled and made others bleed in equal measure. It was a strong hand, one that had slaughtered tens of thousands. It was a hand that had killed all that he loved, and wore the remnants of their lives on his skin. It reminded him of what he was, a killer and a monster.

He pulled back his hand, settling it in his lap as he sat. The Ghost of Sparta had no right to touch something as beautiful as his son's face as he slept.

An hour later the boy awoke, sunlight streaming through the cracks in their shack as the dawn came properly. He shifted out of his covers, sitting upright and rubbing the sand out of his eyes. Then he noticed Kratos sitting there across from him and smiled.

"Hi papa," the boy mumbled, voice raspy and dry from his slumber. "Did you sleep well?"

"It was dreamless," Kratos replied, nodding. "So it was good."

"I'm glad," the boy said, stifling a yawn with his hand. "I'm not sure what I dreamed about. Hunting, I think. And…" he paused, curling back into his furs before glancing up at his father. "And I think I dreamed about mother."

Silence reigned in the shack, broken only by the call of birds from outside. Kratos closed his eyes and took a deep breath, knowing that his child was looking at him with confusion and fear but not knowing how to respond. The boy still grieved for the loss of his mother… But what solace could Kratos give him?

 _I know of only one way to endure the kind of pain he is feeling,_ he thought as he opened his eyes, forcing himself to smile for his son. The expression didn't come easily. _And I will_ not _share that with him. I will_ not _let him walk down the same road I did._

Kratos knew his son would be a better man than he was. He knew it because he would make sure nothing could ever hurt him, would ever force his child down the path of bloodshed and death that had consumed his own life. He would die before he saw his son make the same mistakes, and then he would claw his way out of the underworld again to see his duty complete.

"Let's get some breakfast," Kratos said at last, standing up. "I'm sure you're hungry."

The silence continued as they ate, jerky roasted over a fire along with some gruel. It was not lavish fare, but it was hearty and filling. They even had some fruit to sweeten the oats. Apples were difficult to find so deep in these frozen climes, but some breeds were strong enough to survive. It was a welcome addition to the meal.

The boy continued to glance at his father as they ate, though the anxiety had left his gaze by this point. Kratos noticed, of course, but did not comment. If something was concerning his child, he didn't want to risk trampling the issue underfoot. He'd done quite enough of that in his life already.

"Father, can I ask you something?" the boy asked, setting apple slices into his half filled bowl.

"You are free to ask anything you wish, my son," Kratos replied, finishing the last of his gruel and setting the bowl aside. "You don't need to request permission."

"I know. It's just…" he trailed off and bowed his head. "Never mind. It's nothing."

Kratos frowned, and then gently placed two fingers beneath his son's chin so he could meet the child's eyes. "What is it, boy?"

"I was wondering why you're always looking over me when I wake up," the boy said, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's something I've thought about for a while now."

"Because I want to make sure you are all right," Kratos said, response immediate. "You are important to me and I…" He frowned as his momentum faltered, struggling to find the right words. "I worry for you."

The boy opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. He did this several times, then furrowed his brow as tackling some great issue. A flash of anger, white hot and burning like the fires of the sun, erupted in Kratos' heart. The boy was so timid! Why could he not just speak his mind? His muscles tensed in sudden preparation, ready to strike at the source of his aggravation...

Kratos took a deep breath, his whole body trembling as he wrestled with the fury bubbling within his chest. With agonizing slowness he pressed it down, smothered it beneath the iron hard force of his will. The inferno roared and fought back, boiling the blood in his veins… And was finally broken.

The entire process seemed to take whole ages of the world's life, yet when Kratos finally regained his full presence of mind he saw his son still had his head bowed. Relief and guilt warred against each other across the embers rage had left behind in his soul. That had been far, far too close.

Then the child lunged forward and embraced his father, hugging him as tightly as his young arms could manage. It was a surprisingly strong grip for one so young, and Kratos felt his breath leaving him in a whoosh as the boy held him. Then he went utterly still, like a man trapped in the grip of a giant for all that his son's limbs did not even fully encompass the entirety of his stomach.

"I love you, father," the boy said, pressing his face into Kratos' chest.

For several moments Kratos did nothing but sit there, keeping his hands as far away from his son as possible. Then, slowly and with as much care as if handling the most fragile of glass, Kratos returned the hug. Arms strong enough to shatter tree trunks covered the boy's back entirely, ashen white so he could never forget his sins.

But none of that terrible power was brought to bear in this embrace. There was only gentleness, awkward and cautious as a father allowed himself to show affection for his child.

"I love you too, son."


End file.
